Don't Forget to Lie
by Hekate1308
Summary: She always knew her crush on Sherlock Holmes was hopeless - that doesn't mean she ever thought she'd end up here, forced to lie to all her friends. Molly, Post-Reichenbach


**Author's note: It's Molly's turn. I know I'm writing a lot of fics that most people probably would never consider interesting, but on the other hand – guess what brought me the most followers: A story about Mike Stamford and a story about Sally Donovan. And that is why I love this fandom. **

**And while we're at the subjects of followers: I have had a few really great e-mail-conversations (I make up words. Deal with it) with several readers, and there are quite a few people who review all my new stories. That's great. You are great. I mean it.**

**I don't own anything, and please review. **

If she had thought about it – which she obviously never did, because her silly little crush on Sherlock was everything but well thought over – she still wouldn't have believed that she'd end up here one day.

Lying once is one thing; lying constantly, to her friends, to his friends, to his family even, never being able to let go of the lie, always having to hide what she did, pretending to grieve while other people she knows and even likes are being slowly killed by Sherlock's death, and knowing that this all happened because of a man she used to date –

Nobody could have prepared her for this.

Even when he told her, in this sad voice, with these eyes boring into her, and she knew that she'd do everything she could to help him, although until this day, he'd never seemed to even be aware of her existence, and she started to vaguely realize what he wanted her to do – find a fake body, and that quickly, claim it was Sherlock's, confirm everything through false DNA-tests – she hadn't realized how difficult this would be.

She's always been honest. It was her one good quality.

Even her parents – who'd been everything but supportive when she'd told them she wanted to be a medical examiner – had often told her that it was nice to have such an honest daughter. It had been one thing she could be proud of – one thing nobody could take away from her (except Sherlock Holmes, that is).

She was honest.

A grey mouse, yes.

Unimportant? Yes.

Most likely going to die without a family? Yes.

But she's never been dishonest. Until now.

Nowadays, when she knows Sherlock's alive – even though she only saw him once after "he" died, on the day after the "funeral", when he asked her if everything had worked out fine and she answered "It's all fine", and by the time she'd found the words "You're off, then?" he'd already been halfway out the door, but he had called out "Trust me, it's better if you don't know" and maybe it is, no, it definitely is, she remembers what danger he – and later Doctor Watson, too – stumbled upon on a regular basis – the one adjective she would use to describe herself is just that: dishonest.

Dishonest, because Doctor Watson visits the morgue and the lab more often than she would like and she has to look in his eyes and see how devastated he is. It's not only Sherlock who died in a way on that day, Doctor Watson lost something too. Something important. She's never been jealous of the doctor – if she's honest to herself, and she's only honest to herself, these days, she never thought she really stood a chance with Sherlock, but a girl could dream, right? – and the way he looks at her, with oh so empty eyes, just standing in the lab where he met the consulting detective, almost as if he's hoping to bring him back to life by conjuring his memory – it's enough to break her heart.

So she does what she's always done and brings him coffee. She can do that, at least, without lying.

And she listens, though that is far harder to achieve without lying, because the truth's always there, on the tip of her tongue, and every time he tells her how much he misses his best friend, she can feel the "He's alive!" slowly making its way towards her tongue, until she suppresses it. And she always does. She promised Sherlock, after all, and she might not be a honest, good person anymore, but at least she still keeps her promises.

It's even harder to talk to Mrs. Hudson. The good, nice old lady occasionally invites her to 221B Baker Street to have a cup of tea, and is thoroughly convinced she's doing the right thing and acting the way Sherlock would have wanted her to act when really, she's everything but, and every time Molly hears her call Sherlock and John "my boys" she has to bite her tongue and ignore the truth that wants to be told.

Because she can't.

Sherlock is out there, doing God knows what – though she strongly suspects it has to do with Moriarty, or Jim, as she called him, once upon a time, when they were watching Glee together – and he needs her to lie. So she'll do it.

She's never really been able to resist him, after all. One look in those yes, one word in this voice, and off she goes. It's always been, and she thinks will always be, this way.

And while she may have a rather strong crush on the consulting detective – and still dreams of more, now and then – that's not all there is.

She likes him. She's always liked him. Most people hate him, and she can't really blame them – the way he likes to tell people about their past can be rather off-putting (how well she remembers the day she first set eyes on him, when he worked on his very first case ever for Scotland Yard, stormed into the morgue, claimed he had to see the body and, while he was looking at and touching the corpse, took one look at her and murmured, more to himself than anyone else, "Only child. Parents not happy with her choice of work, but still supportive. Single, appears to have been for a long time. Fond of cats." And she hadn't said a word, hadn't been able to say a word, and that was when he first looked her in the eyes – maybe he wondered why she hadn't kicked him out yet). But she likes him for the way he acts, likes that there are no lies when he tells you your life story. He doesn't try to make it easier or nicer or better for you to listen to. He just lists facts, and in her line of work, she's grown to appreciate facts. They don't hurt. They just are.

And she thinks he's a good person, somewhere deep down, and she believes he has good reason to do whatever it is he's doing right now (just let him come back safe and healthy, please. Just that). So she helps him by lying.

By lying to the whole world, apparently, because it's not only John and Mrs. Hudson. His brother – his strange, posh, older brother – demanded to see the body almost immediately, and when she saw the oh so familiar deducing gaze sweep over the corpse, she was rather glad she'd picked out the John Doe according to his wishes.

He left without a word. These Holmses – a strange family, but they can't fool her. She saw the sadness in Sherlock's eyes when he asked for her help, she saw the grief in his brother's when he looked upon the body he thought of as Sherlock's. They simply think too much.

DI Lestrade, the nice police man, the one who's always believed and still believes in Sherlock, wasn't so quiet. He ranted, actually screamed at Sherlock's body before leaving, and apologized to her afterwards. The good man – if he only knew- she should be the one apologizing. She sees him, now and then, in the morgue – murders still happen, even if Sherlock Holmes isn't there to solve them – and he's always so nice to her. She wishes he wouldn't be. It makes it even harder to lie.

Even Mike Stamford, the one who nobody ever thinks about, who introduced John and Sherlock, checks on her, when he's just spent another hour trying to teach young people something. She really likes him. He never intrudes. He just politely asks "How do you do?" and talks about the weather when it's clear that he too, like everyone else, knows about her crush and assumes she's suffering.

And the lying continues. Doctor Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, DI Lestrade – again and again she has to lied, and she will keep lying. For Sherlock, she will.

And when he returns – well, she'll explain to him exactly how she felt. Maybe she'll even scream. Unless, of course, he uses his puppy dog eyes.

But that's a different story altogether.

**Author's note: Molly deserves a story too... I can sympathize with her, I always have a very unhealthy crush on Sherlock. **

**I hope you enjoyed, and please review.**


End file.
